March 5, 2010

This month's Session hosted by The Ferm is about when do we actually get to drink our prized bottles that we hoard. It's a topic recently touched upon in the LA Times, and those cats down in LA take "cellaring" to an on-the-real level. I still have a bunch of junk in my parents' basement down in LA, but certainly no beer. And just to get this off my chest, I'm still not entirely comfortable with how the beer community has joined winos in turning cellar into a verb. But I do appreciate the irony in essentially "lagering" our fine ales.

I've blogged about my Beeradise in the past. I recently thinned the herd to make more room in the Beeradise (aka malt vault), which of course one again overfloweth. I figure, it's proof I don't have a drinking problem (just a collecting problem). The good and the bad part is that Half Pint has put her foot down and limits our stash to whatever can fit into the armoire-half and the chiller-half (and whatever I invariably sneak into our hall closet, until such time as it starts to block access to her shoes).

As such, I don't buy a case of beers like Anchor Old Foghorn or Sierra Nevada Old Bigfoot every year. A few I do procure annually are Anchor Our Special Ale, Alaskan Smoked Porter, and Deschutes The Abyss. I don't think anyone would fault me there, right?

But the question at hand is: when do you actually stop mentally masturbating over looking at them like high-gravity centerfolds and actually have your way with them? Like a kick to the head, I feel I’m snapping out of my hoarding mentality. Life is uncertain. What if a piece of blue ice falls from an airplane and fatally knocks

the shit out of—or into—me and I never get to try those 300-ish bottles including the three-year vertical of Cantillon Blåbærpeacefully laying at rest in there? No way, Jose. I’m

gonna drink those bad boys sooner than later. Late May/early June sounds good, shortly after my wedding and honeymoon. That’s as good a reason to celebrate, yeah?

As for the other 297-ish, I never really need my arm twisted to find a reason to rejoice with good beer and good friends.